Page 122 of Out of Control

I narrow my brows and pretend to think. “How about all three? This.” I squeeze her butt again. “That.” I point to the sun above. “And you.”

Jesus. When did I become sappy? But one scrape of her nails down my legs in response says exactly why.

This woman.

Fuck.

She’s everything.

“Mm. I guess I’ll have to accept that answer.”

“It’s not like you had a choice, Sof. You’re stuck with me.” I chuckle. “You know you’ve made it big time, Miss Gallery Owner, when the tabloids already have you breaking up with me and moving on to the next man.”

“I believe it was rumored I’d dumped you for the heir to Villanosa Yachts,” she says and then squirms when I squeeze her ass.

“Fucker,” I mutter playfully.

“Are you already doubting my love for you, Ollie?” she asks sweetly with a bat of her lashes and a wiggle of her hips.

I lean in and kiss her bare shoulder. “I do believe it was your lips wrapped around my cock this morning as a wake-up call so I’m pretty sure I don’t give a fuck what the tabloids say.”

Christ. Talk about a way to wake up. Her warm mouth. My hard cock. Her fingernails grazing against my balls.

“Good thing, but just in case . . .”

“Just in case?” I look at her, her lifted eyebrows, and her suggestive smirk. “What am I missing?”

Thoughts of her stripping off her bikini and riding me right here on the deck fill my head . . . just about the same time a helicopter flies overhead.

It’s a normal sound here in Monaco. Helicopters flying here and there to deliver or deposit their affluent owners in style, but this one in particular hovers over the complex we are in.

And no sooner than I look up do bright blue papers suddenly begin trickling through the air.

It’s like a ticker tape parade raining down on us. The closer they get, the bigger the papers become.

What the hell?

This was my gimmick, my kick ass idea. Who the hell’s stealing it from me?

“What is it?” Sofia asks.

“Some fucker stole my idea. I hope he gets fined for not jumping through all the goddamn hoops I had to jump through to do it.”

“What an asshole,” she says as we both look up and wait for the flyers to reach us.

I stand up and grab the first one, prepared to be pissed, but when I do, when I read the words on the page, my heart stutters in my chest. I look over to Sofia whose grin is huge. Her expression’s nervous.

“Sofia.” I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I can’t accept this.”

“It’s not up for discussion. Aren’t you the one who told me if I want something the only way to say it is to speak up?”

“Yeah.” I don’t know where to look. At the paper or at my woman.

“Well, I’m speaking up.”

I look at the paper again. “A huge thank you to everyone for making the grand opening of the Simply-Just Gallery a giant success.” It goes on to tell the winner of the contest, but it’s the words at the bottom that make me smile. “Hope to see you soon. Oliver Rossi and Sofia Navarro. Owners.”

“Sofia. You didn’t have to do that. I’m not an owner.” But God does it feel good for her to see me as one.